


Not In How Well He Does the Easy Things

by Devilc



Category: Friday Night Lights
Genre: Angst, Gen, Laundrylist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-11
Updated: 2010-01-11
Packaged: 2017-10-06 03:37:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/49238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devilc/pseuds/Devilc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim faces Coach Taylor the morning after giving the camera back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not In How Well He Does the Easy Things

**Author's Note:**

> Written for FNL_Laundrylist challenge #2, prompt #1:"Tim finally has someone who cares about him enough to actually stop and ask him how he's feeling. Bonus points if it's Mrs. Street since way back in the beginning we saw that she asked about him, even with all the stuff going on with Jason."

Going to Monday's practice is the second hardest thing Tim Riggins has ever done.

(Knocking on Coach's door yesterday was the hardest.)

The guys just look at him _low_ as he heads across the floor to his locker. He presses his lips shut and unbuttons his shirt -- there's a reason he likes shirts that button as opposed to T-shirts, days like this, it hurts less to get dressed. There's a softly drawled "damn" from somebody when the black and blue mess over his ribs comes to light. He clenches his teeth and pulls his undershirt down as quickly as he can without making himself too woozy from pain.

He feels like saying that it's what white trash like the Rigginses do. Get drunk and pick fights in bars and get the shit kicked out of them.

Tim can't contain the hiss or the fact that he needs to sit down really quickly as he tries to get his jersey on over his pads.

Smash and Matt corner him as he heads for the field.

"I-I think Coach w-would understand --"

"Riggins, are you as dumb as you look? You are in no kind of shape "

"Pain is weakness leaving the body," he rasps.

"Awwh, now I _know_ you don't subscribe to that kind of bull, Riggins."

Matt grips his upper arm. "Are you okay, Tim?" And his eyes are so blue and so full of concern, and there's no way he can tell either of them. He can't explain why he _needs_ this, not in any way that makes sense.

He tries to smile at them, but winces when he opens up his split lip again. He touches his hand to it and pulls away with blood on his fingertips.

"Right. That tears it. Go get Coach or a trainer or something, Matt."

And like that, Seven's gone.

Tim tries to brush past Smash, but he's stronger than he looks and he's got this muley expression on his face. And, ordinarily, Tim could just shoulder him out of the way, but today ... well, he still could, but it's just not worth it, not today.

Matt comes back with Coach (and Tim just wants to die from shame) and Coach says, "You two, out on the field, Tim, my office."

Tim puts his head down and follows Coach in. He sits on the chair opposite Coach's desk and stares at the worn linoleum.

"Son, are you okay?"

_What do you think?_ and _Just swell, sir._ and _No I'm not._ and a hundred other replies pile up in Tim's mind, but what emerges from the log jam is, "I'm not your son." _If you had a son, it would be someone like Jay. Somebody perfect like Jay. _

Silence.

"Tim." Coach clears his throat. "Tim, look at me."

But Tim can't. He just shakes his head and looks at the laces of the cleats his father bought him. And he'd throw them away or burn them or something, but he and Billy just don't have the money for another pair. And they're blurring now because his eyes are flooded with water and he snaps them shut and draws in a huge breath because he's not going to cry.

He's. Not. Going. To. Cry.

His breath is all hitchy and he knows his shoulders are shaking, but he's not crying. It's not really crying unless there's sound coming out of your throat.

Coach comes around from his side of the desk, crouches down, puts his hand on Tim's shoulder, and says softly, "Tim, I couldn't be prouder of you if you were my own son."

And it takes a moment for that to penetrate. Tim swipes at the water leaking out from behind his eyes.

"The measure of a man, son, isn't how well he does the easy things. It's how well he does the hard things, the thankless things, the things that kill you inside -- because it would kill you more _not_ to do them."

Tim darts his eyes up and nods his head.

"Now you call me or knock on my door any time day or night -- I mean it Tim -- and I will not turn you away. You get that?"

He nods again.

"I can't hear you."

"Yes, sir, I understand."

"Good." Coach stands and crosses his arms. "Go out there and do the running drills, but none of the contact stuff. We've got to loosen you up, keep you limber, not put bruises on bruises."

"Yes sir," Tim murmurs and heads for the door.

"One more thing." Tim looks over his shoulder. Coach's eyes bore into his as he says, "You do a stupid thing like this again instead of calling me, and no power on earth is going to stop me from getting a piece of your hide. Any time, day or night."

Tim smiles back with the side of his mouth that's not split open, puts his helmet on, and heads for the field.


End file.
